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death with various government offices too. Although he hoped that having to deal with such practical matters would help put him back on his feet, he still felt too weary to tackle them.
8
    O N THE SEVENTH DAY , at the crack of dawn, they went to visit the grave. The rain had stopped, but it was still rather cold. The likable rabbi had set the occasion for 6 A.M. , because he had a prior engagement in Tel Aviv the same morning, and though he had offered to find them a substitute, they declined. “It’s all right,” they told him. “We’ll get up at five,” which was indeed far better than risking an unknown who might decide to ask all kinds of questions and deliver all kinds of sermons. Yet there were barely the ten men needed for a prayer group and they had trouble finding the grave, though as soon as the rabbi appeared he led them straight to it. By seven they were back home again, alone for the first time in months. The college student went off to his classes, the soldier returned to her base, and the high school boy, after a moment’s hesitation, was persuaded to go back to school too, leaving Molkho by himself to shave off his beard in the empty house he had been confined to for a whole week, waiting for the movers to pick up the large hospital bed.
    At eight-thirty the morning help arrived. Molkho did not know the woman well, especially because whenever he had called from the office, it had always been his wife who had answered the phone. Now she had come to return the key and be paid; she was, after all, a practical nurse, not a housekeeper, and she had already found a new job elsewhere. “Where?” asked Molkho, feeling a twinge of envy. “Not far from here,” she replied. “Just a few blocks away.” He looked at her, a short, dark-haired, presumably divorced woman of about thirty, reasonably efficient though never overly dedicated to her job—but his wife had given her exact instructions and she had carried them out well enough. Perhaps, he suggested after a moment’s thought, afraid of being saddled with the housework just when he had been finally set free, she might remain a while until he got organized. She had the key, she knew where things were; why not stay on to cook and do some light cleaning? Perhaps she could even work at both places, since he didn’t need her every day. “Sit down,” he said, feeling her dark eyes on him. Could she possibly suspect him of some ulterior motive? She looked at him uncertainly and then said a few feeling words about his wife, whose body she knew as well as he did and whose death-smell still clung to her too, so that for a moment he almost believed that she might be a bridge to something whose nature was unclear to him. Except that again she repeated, “I’m a practical nurse, not a housekeeper.” “Of course, you are,” he said. “It’s just that meanwhile the boy should be given a hot lunch and the house needs cleaning now and then. I can do a lot myself, but I’m not organized yet.” The woman thought it over and agreed. “But only for the time being,” she insisted.
    Just then there was a knock on the door, and a brash young moving man in blue overalls appeared for the bed, grinning at them both and addressing the woman as Mrs. Molkho, an error that Molkho was not sure how to correct. Hurriedly he ushered the man into the bedroom, where he first checked the bed from all angles for damage and then produced some papers to sign. The deposit would be returned in a month or two, he told Molkho, who began at once to protest, having assumed that the sizable sum would be refunded right away. “Why, it’s not even indexed,” he said. “It will just go on losing its value!” The mover did not disagree. Still, he said, those were the rules, it wasn’t up to him, and in any case, Molkho didn’t stand to lose much; there were people who had kept